Myself, The Fallen
by That Buggy Girl
Summary: [Oneshot prequel to The Walking Wounded] After a session with his therpist, Michel ponders over what he might have been like, were it all different.


"Miss Ebert wants me to speak at graduation."

In her years as a therapist, Doctor Adelaide Schulz had heard many statements she never expected to hear. That was the risk of her business, she supposed, especially when working with children who had unstable lives or were abused. Though she'd heard nearly everything imaginable from the vast array of children who passed through her office, she had not been prepared hear that particular statement from the young man who issued it.

Adelaide waited. She could tell by the way his brows furrowed, he had more to say. After three years worth of sessions, she had learned to read Michel Conrad's facial cues fairly accurately, and when his brows knit like that, it meant he was not done.

As she waited for him to continue, Adelaide studied the boy. He had grown an inch or so since he began seeing her, but was still petit and wiry. He had a lithe body that she'd always thought would have been suited for a dancer, and with his cherubic face, sandy blond curls and wide jade eyes, he certainly would have been the darling of any stage. She knew he ran and had taken gymnastics when he was younger and that he enjoyed community service and volunteered from time to time at a neighborhood soup kitchen. He was a beautiful, well-rounded young man, but complicated, as she had come to know over the years.

He had come to her three and a half years before, just barely fifteen, the victim of sexual harassment and abuse at school. He was an orphan, she learned, a product of the fighting in Ireland, and he had been in the house the night his parents were brutally murdered. Taken in and raised by the illustrious Sir Richard Krypton, Michel had seemed to be a well-adjusted child until he hit his teens, and by the time he arrived in her office for his first his appointment, he was suffering from an eating disorder, had almost no self-esteem and was routinely carving gashes into his own skin.

"I'm not certain I even want to attend commencement." Michel was playing with the sleeves of his shirt, head lowered. As Adelaide watched him, she wondered again how any one could have possibly damaged such a harmless person. Though her profession demanded she not play favorites or get too attached to a client, she was fond of Michel. It was hard not to be, considering the three and a half years they had been meeting.

"Why not?" She asked softly, "You've worked hard to make it this far." Though she knew school was a touchy subject, Adelaide also knew Michel enjoyed learning. He was curious by nature -sometimes nosy, even- and he had tried his best to keep his grades up, even with all of the distractions his classmates provided.

"There's nothing for me at that school. I never belonged there and it seems stupid for me to attend a ceremony I am not even wanted at." Michel had a habit of speaking candidly, on the rare occurrences he would willingly volunteer and share information. "It's ridiculous for Miss Ebert to even suggest I speak; I'm not valedictorian, I've never achieved anything while attending Saint Justin's and my grades are less than exemplary."

"Why do you think she asked you to say a few words, then?" Adelaide handled different patients in different ways and Michel was some one who she liked to question in this manner. It was easier for him to explain things for himself than for her to constantly grill him and he was mature and articulate enough to get ideas out in a way which she could make sense of.

"Because she's a bleeding heart." The blond looked up, finally, and Adelaide knew he was unhappy. His eyes were a hazy grey-green, a sure sign he was not pleased. "She sees me as some sort of charity case and thinks my story can be inspiring. She thinks I'm a tough kid, a survivor and fighter. But in the end, I'm only myself, the fallen." He sighed softly, dragging his fingers through his hair. "I'm not all these things she thinks I am and there's no way I would either want to or be able to speak in front of all those people."

"Maybe that's why she would like to see you do it, Michel. Maybe she wants to see if you can rise to one final challenge and prove yourself."

"I won't do it." Michel frowned, "What would I even say? It's not like I can go on about my classmates who abused me. I know Miss Ebert wants to be helpful, but this is a rather stupid idea on her part. There's nothing to prove, nor do I feel the need to prove myself to people who have never cared whether I lived or died. I'm tired of all this school stuff and I just want to get out of there for good."

Adelaide nodded. Graduation was a few weeks away still, and Michel might see fit to change his mind. She wasn't sure herself if his speaking at graduation would be any sort of good idea, but she didn't think he should rule it out so quickly, either. He _was_ a tough kid and he did deserve to be acknowledged. "How have things been at home recently?"

As the conversation changed topics, Michel seemed to tune out the world around him. It was easy enough to answer Dr Schulz's questions without thinking too hard about them; he had been having sessions with her for years. It was becoming far too simple to tune her out, yet still give the appropriate responses to questions.

He hated talking about home. Those discussions inevitably resulted in questions about Free and their relationship, and Michel knew Dr Schulz didn't approve. He wasn't sure, but he didn't think it was because of the age difference. Based on the questions she asked and the comments she sometimes made, he had come to the conclusion she was more worried about his never dating.

He didn't get the fuss about dating. It seemed so silly and pointless when he knew he would wind up with Free in the end. Why force the both of them to be miserable while he tried seeing other people; when he already knew any other relationship would be doomed? He knew Free would wait a million years for him; there was no one else the man had ever so much as looked at.

Michel wondered sometimes what Schulz saw Free as. He knew the image Free presented to the world; he was so clueless to the careless observer. The blond was well aware of the world in which his lover lived, full of the future and the past all entwined together into one. He was the center of that universe, the thing which anchored Free to the here and now. Without him, Free would be entrenched in struggling to recall his past and the business of sorting out and making sense of the future.

_Unhealthy; unhealthy; unhealthy_. He could practically hear the words coming from Dr Schulz's mouth. She'd told him before that she thought the two of them might have had unhealthy fixations on one another, but how could she possibly know? How could she know that they were one soul in two bodies; that they couldn't survive if one of them were gone? She didn't know everything they'd been through together. Far from it. She knew very little of their history, in fact.

She didn't know anything, in fact. She didn't know that when Free had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of his past life, it was because of Michel. She didn't know that when Michel had fallen, Free had lifted him up again. She didn't know; there was so much she didn't know because he couldn't tell her. Of course she would think what she wanted, because she didn't know any better.

At the end of the session, she told him they'd made progress, like always. And he thanked her for listening. Like always. He never really felt anything changed after their sessions, but he did appreciate having some one to talk to.

Walking from the underground to the shop, he thought for a moment about what Miss Ebert had asked of him. To speak in front of all those who had hurt him, to prove he was not going to fall without a fight. There was no way he could do it, but he loved the idea of it. _You can beat me, but you'll never beat me._

Passing by an antique shop Chloé went to on occasion, Michel stopped and studied his reflection in the mirror. His pants, well-worn khakis, were too long and rolled up on the bottoms. He was still too short. The light jacket he wore over a soft, stretchy screen-printed tee did little to hide how thin he was. His hair was sort of shaggy -in need of a trim, as always- and hung in his eyes. His book bag was slung over one shoulder and matched the color of his leather sandals. His face looked a little pale, as usual, and he hadn't slept well the night before, so there were dark circles under his eyes.

Typical. Normal. Except for the color of his eyes -which wasn't that common- he was average in every way. It made him wonder sometimes what Free saw in him, the plain little child with no family, no future and no real skills.

"This is me." He said softly to himself. A hand rose, nimble fingers lightly touching the reflection in the glass. "I am only myself, the fallen." His head tipped to the side as he studied the too-thin, pallid person staring back at him. "I am not strong, nor am I brave. I am nothing, if not myself." And in that moment…

Something ignited.

It was a startling realization, the understanding that -had all the bad stuff failed to happen- he would not be who he was. Had he not fallen, who would he be? He would still be himself, only…not. Happier, maybe. Able to open up to people and make friends easier. Perhaps still innocent. Would he be confident enough to talk to the three rowdy teens buying ice cream across the street? Would he have better grades at school? Would he be more sure of himself, less timid? He would be a totally different person, if he hadn't suffered at all.

He wasn't sure if different would be better, but Michel was uncomfortable with that thought.

Suddenly in a hurry to get away from that reflection and the unsettling thoughts that accompanied it, he decided to take his chances on the ice cream boys across the way, and wove himself through traffic to the ice cream shop. Fortunately, they looked unfamiliar and he was able to buy a small vanilla cone in peace.

Michel wondered at times why he never had a single friend at school. There were others like him, of course, who wear picked on. Others who were alone all the time. There was a vast array of reasons his classmates were teased and bullied; from being too smart to being to dumb to being a scholarship student with less money than every one else. There were even a few other students with problems similar to his own. But they had never banded together, never tried to be friends and never helped one another out of tricky situations.

As he licked his ice cream, he watched the other three boys for a moment. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but they were teasing back and forth about something, and laughing, and he couldn't help feeling jealous. Why didn't he have any friends like that? What was it about him that made him so difficult to like? He had been nothing but friendly when he was first enrolled in Saint Justin's; friendly and eager to meet new people.

The three who were goofing off seemed to move as a unit towards the door, one of them griping over something another had said. Michel's green gaze followed them and he found himself wishing he were able to just go over and talk to them and maybe make friends for once in his life; they looked to be about his age. But the shyness, the inability to approach strangers, had been too long ingrained into his mind; it was too much a part of who he was.

How was it possible to live in this world, yet not be a part of it? He could feel himself receding again as the glass door swung shut behind them, leaving him alone with the girl who had scooped his ice cream. He took another lick of the cone and glided out the door after them, turning one again towards home.

It had been a moment in which he could have changed his life. Those boys could have been wonderful people and could have been his friends. But, as he had told Doctor Schulz, he was not brave and not strong. He was only himself, the person who was too afraid of being hurt to speak.

The ice cream was gone by the time he entered home by way of the shop. He waved his customary hello to Chloé and Aya, paused to speak with Yuki, and padded up the back staircase to the apartment. Free wasn't home; Michel knew he was out running errands and getting groceries, otherwise he wouldn't have been walking back alone. Sometime on his trip up the steps, his cat had appeared by his side, winding around his ankles, the little bell on her collar jingling.

He stooped, lifting the animal into his arms, and buried his face in grey fur. "You don't care who I am or what I do, do you, Hope?" She smelled like glass clippings and he wondered if Ken had let her into the greenhouse again. "It only matters that I love you, yes?"

She purred happily, butting her head against his chin, as he carried her down the hall with him. It didn't matter that Free wasn't home, Michel let himself into the older man's immaculate room, plopping Hope down on the pristine sheets and rolling his eyes at her disgruntled mewl of protest. He toed off his sandals and set his book bag by the door, prepared to await Free's return. He had nothing better to do, anyway, and curled up in the Papasan chair, legs drawn up beneath him. He would undoubtedly fall asleep there; he always did.

_Miss Ebert wants me to speak at graduation._

The statement rolled around in his head as he sat there, attempting to read a novel he'd started a week or so ago. To speak; to open his mouth. To say all of the things he had wanted to say for the past seven years. How could he not? But at the same time, how could he? It was an enticing offer; he would love to shame them all in front of their families. Parts of a speech drifted through his mind, cynical things and things he would never actually say. It just wasn't going to happen.

He would not speak at graduation; there was nothing for him to say. There were no words for any of his classmates; nothing he wanted to say to any of them. Nothing they deserved to hear from him. They had belittled and humiliated and ignored him for far too long, they didn't deserve to see any of his thoughts laid before them. They didn't deserve to have any part of him.

Hope jumped up into his lap and he abandoned the book in favor of petting her. She pawed at his pants for a moment, claws kneading, as she got comfortable. He didn't mind her claws; he knew she would never hurt him. Michel's fingers scritched behind her ears, eliciting more purrs, and she nuzzled his hand. He was yawning by the time she finally settled down, one hand resting softly on her striped back. He never knew why this chair made him so sleepy; perhaps it was because it was so comfortable.

Chloé had taken a picture of him there once, asleep, the sun pouring through the window and causing his hair to glow golden like a halo. The photograph had been framed and hung on the wall; it was one of Free's favorites. Michel knew that, in Free's eyes, it made him look innocent and peaceful, and all of the things he too seldom was in life. Like an angel, or a dream…Something you only get to see once in your life.

But he knew…If he was an angel, he was a fallen one. And if he were a dream, it would only wake to a nightmare. And he knew that if he had to walk through the fires of Hell, then so be it. As long as Free was there to raise him up and give him wings to fly away from it all, he could handle things like school and missions and whatever else life chose to throw his way. As long as Free was there…

No matter how many times his wings were clipped, he would still be able to fly.


End file.
